


Evil Author Day 2020

by CracklPop



Category: Final Fantasy XV, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Evil Author Day, Evil Author Day 2020, It's Really Difficult to Accurately Tag When Most of the Story Is Unfinished, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: Assorted beginnings and/or bits from my WIPs.Teen Wolf Steter:Claudia Stilinski yearns for a child, and makes an unwise bargain with the king of the Court. Seventeen years later, the king comes to collect the debt.Teen Wolf Stargent:Stiles hooks up with a hot older guy at the wedding of his long-lost childhood friend Scott McCall. Turns out the hookup is the father of the bride. And the wedding party might be full of monsters.Final Fantasy XV Promnis:Prompto Argentum returns to Insomnia after college to see his old friend Noctis. He runs into former classmate and current Caelum Corp. executive Ignis Scientia at Noctis' place one night, and finds his teenage crush on Ignis is not as faded as he thought. Sort of a modern AU?
Relationships: Chris Argent/Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 19
Kudos: 51





	1. Charm'd By Thy Beauty: Teen Wolf Steter WIP

Claudia’s grandmother told her never to bargain with Them. No matter what you wanted, no matter how badly you needed it, Babcia said, the price was always too dear. Babcia had a thousand stories of trickster Wrózki and tragic Rusalka—she filled Claudia’s mind with images of unearthly beauty and century-long revels, with unexpected eyes in mushroom patches and wild, sentient trees. 

Young Claudia spent hours listening to her grandmother talk of the wicked Południca, the cruel Erlkönig, a vine-trailing Leshy. The stories thrilled and terrified Claudia in equal measure. They spoke of brave heroes and heroines—voyagers and warriors and plucky youngest sons and daughters whose cleverness conquered the whims and wiles of supernatural creatures. 

Claudia’s mother was clearly humoring Babcia when she nodded along at the older woman’s warnings of milk-drinking pixies and monstrous red caps, but Claudia’s father, who was Babcia’s only son, often wore a troubled look. Claudia overheard them once, arguing in vehement whispers. Her Papa didn’t want Claudia involved with Babcia’s ways and Babcia’s secrets. 

It was the first time Claudia truly believed that Babcia’s stories might be more than myths. But Claudia’s parents visited Babcia less and less as their daughter grew, and Claudia’s tiny flame of belief was easily guttered. By the time Claudia was a teenager and Babcia died quietly in her sleep, the small book and pouch of dried flowers willed to Claudia had no meaning beyond her own sentiment and a handful of dusty memories. 

Claudia’s Papa lived long enough to see her graduate from college, get her first job, and fall in love with Noah Stilinski, a young police officer from Los Angeles who looked at her like she was the end of every search he’d undertaken. Claudia felt cold when they first kissed, then unbearably warm, as though she and Noah were bleeding into each other, inextricably twining together. 

They buried Claudia’s Papa two months after she married Noah, and Claudia clung to her new husband all the tighter for her loss. Her mother retired to a sunny home in Florida and the young Stilinski couple moved to the forest-bound little town of Beacon Hills, California. Noah took a job as a deputy in the sheriff’s department. Claudia worked in the school library and watched the children day in and day out, dreaming of having her own. 

At first when she didn’t conceive, Claudia blamed the stress of her father’s death. Then, after a year had gone by, she went to the doctor. She tracked and charted her body’s every sign with determined attention verging on obsession. She took medication, she lay still for insemination. As time passed without a pregnancy, the treatments left for her to try became too expensive. 

Claudia felt as though her body had betrayed her. She knew her response wasn’t rational, that her inability to sustain a life inside didn’t mean she couldn’t have a family. 

But her heart hurt, and when the doctor began to urge alternative paths to motherhood, Claudia went home and lay down and dampened her pillow with tears. 

Noah came home early from work and held her close against his strong, flannel-clad shoulder. Claudia shuddered and wept and eventually felt hollowed-out and light-headed and empty. That night, while Noah slept in their bed, Claudia crept from their room to the home office she’d imagined would become a nursery and sifted teary-eyed through old photos of her childhood. 

When she reached the bottom of the box, her fingers brushed against something unexpected: Babcia’s bequest. Claudia gently shook the packet of dried flowers and herbs, then opened the leather-bound book with a bittersweet twist of her lips. She’d paged through it shortly after Babcia’s death, enjoying the strange words and fantastical illustrations. It seemed like a strange recipe book, but instead of food, the ingredients and steps were meant to make spells. Claudia had always assumed it was a silly but harmless nod to Babcia’s time sharing her love of myth and fairy tales with her granddaughter. 

She skimmed through the book by the dim light of the desk lamp, attention caught by one drawing in particular. It depicted a Wrózka king who was compelling but also faintly menacing even in two dimensions. The faded lettering above his head said Erlkönig, and Claudia stretched her memory back to hear Babcia’s quiet voice speaking of lost children and red berries and the ruler of an unearthly court. 

The text on the accompanying page was difficult to decipher, but Claudia’s eyes snagged on one clearly written phrase. 

_…he knows the true desires of the heart and can grant all things…_

The summoning spell itself was much easier to read, and called for a mix of dried herbs and fresh flowers combined with a surprisingly simple ritual. Claudia, remembering giggling sleepover activities of ouija boards and darkened mirrors from her girlhood, felt slightly ridiculous as she traced her finger over the short list of ingredients. 

She tipped the contents of Babcia’s herb packet into her hand and inhaled lightly, finding nearly every ingredient for the spell in front of her was contained therein. It only lacked fresh roses and a thorn bloodied by her own body. Her eyes went to the robust bouquet of white roses Noah had brought home with him that afternoon.

Claudia was gripped by a feverish excitement, suddenly and wildly determined to do this one last thing, this one last attempt to force her body to bear fruit before she accepted the inevitable and grieved a life that never was. 

The small kitchen was dark, but Claudia worked by moonlight spilling through window glass, fingers unexpectedly deft as she measured and weighed the strangely resilient herbs and dried flowers from Babcia, then rent silky rose petals into neat strips. After a quick breath, she pierced her skin with a rose’s thorn and tore it still dripping from the stem. 

She murmured the words from the book and left the small bowl of ingredients outside the door, where it sat in a wash of moon- and starlight. For a second, the night was still, so still Claudia felt as though every living creature held its breath. Then sound filtered through the silence and a nocturnal bird sang its song and Claudia sighed and shook her head, disbelief flitting across her features when she considered the last hour’s actions. 

_A spell_ , she thought with a certain wry amusement. Well, that was one way of dealing with the doctor’s prognosis. 

Claudia closed the back door and sank into a chair at the kitchen table, considering a calming cup of tea and picturing Noah’s warm arms and soft breath fondly. She should return to bed. She and Noah had more than one option for expanding their family. In the morning things would be brighter. 

She had just gotten to her feet when the back door flew open and a tall figure stood on the threshold. 

Claudia made several shocked, horrified noises and groped behind her for a knife from the block. 

“I believe you requested my presence, dear lady,” the figure announced, its voice deep. 

Claudia’s fingers closed on a blade’s handle and she jerked it free to hold warningly in front of her. Embarrassingly, it was a paring knife. 

The stranger stepped forward then paused as moonlight glinted off the short blade. 

“Are you under the impression that toy is some sort of…weapon?” the intruder asked, sounding politely curious. 

Claudia glared at him and waved the knife menacingly. 

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Get out! I’ll—my husband will be here any second. He’s a cop. He has a gun.”

“But I was invited. Surely you recognize this visage?” The kitchen light blazed abruptly to life, revealing a stern, beautiful face made of clean and sharp lines. Blue eyes stared down at Claudia with humor and cruelty and she faltered, hardly noticing when the paring knife fell from her numb fingers. 

“Impossible,” she breathed as she saw the old illustration come to life before her. 

“Unlikely, shall we say?” the stranger corrected. “The king of the Court has come at your call. What is it that you wished? A bargain, perhaps?”

His gaze tracked over her body slowly, considering. Claudia trembled, images and words from Babcia tumbling in a welter of fear and hope and desperation in her mind.

“A child,” she got out before her throat closed up. “I want a child.”


	2. Stargent AU (I have no idea what I'm going to call this): Stiles/Chris Argent Meet at a Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven't decided if this one has a happy ending.

Stiles was getting the impression he wasn’t really welcome at Scott McCall’s wedding. For one thing, it seemed like he was the only guest who didn’t know every single other person there. For another, Stiles had counted at least five people who had audibly sniffed at him then frowned when he’d been introduced, leading him to fear he had made a serious miscalculation in his cologne application. 

Then there was the odd way various guests leaned into one another when saying hello. Stiles stared, fascinated, as two burly guys in suits all but buried their noses in each other’s throats then backed away with polite nods. Maybe it was some strange, local take on the air-kisses thing he’d seen in France. No one had tried it with him, though, and it felt like a slight. 

Usually Stiles wasn’t so insecure, but after the fourth or fifth time he’d heard the conversation cut off abruptly when he approached, he was regretting his impulsive decision to attend the wedding. He could only catch a few phrases here and there, but he couldn’t say he was particularly reassured by hearing words like _hunter, alpha,_ or _pull of the moon._

By the time the cake was cut and Scott was licking smears of frosting from Allison Argent McCall’s adorable dimples, Stiles was half-convinced he’d inadvertently witnessed a cult wedding. 

Scott had issued the spur-of-the-moment wedding invitation to Stiles the night before, when they’d unexpectedly run into each for the first time in fifteen years. Stiles assumed Scott had invited him out of pity, since they’d reconnected at a speakeasy in San Francisco, where Stiles had been depressed and alone, four stiff drinks and one unfortunate Jäger shot into the night. Scott had apparently been there for his bachelor party, spotted Stiles, and immediately realized he was looking at his long-lost, childhood best friend. 

Scott had waved his friends off to have a good time without him and seated himself on the stool next to Stiles. He’d then proceeded to listen to Stiles unload about his shitty ex-boyfriend, his monstrous graduate-school workload, and how his shitty ex-boyfriend was one of his professors. Scott had been full of anger on Stiles’ behalf, tossing around terms like _taking advantage_ and _inappropriate behavior_ , but Stiles had just sighed and said he’d known what he was getting into.

If he hadn’t just gone through a nasty breakup, Stiles would probably have nodded politely at Scott’s suggestion that he drive down for the wedding and declined. Instead, feeling miserable and reckless, Stiles had agreed with Scott’s declaration that getting out of town for the weekend would be good for him. He could meet Scott’s _amazing, gorgeous, talented, sweet, smart_ fiancée, Allison, and catch up with all the things that had changed in Beacon Hills since Stiles and his dad had left after his mom died. 

Twelve hours later, hungover but still optimistic about the wedding, Stiles found himself at an outlet mall off the state highway between San Francisco and Beacon Hills, waiting in line at a Le Creuset factory store to buy a bright green dutch oven and a card with a stick-figure bride and groom on the front. 

When Stiles had stepped into the enclosed garden where the ceremony was held and seen the tiny, intimate gathering, he’d had some second thoughts. When every head turned at the scrape of his shoe on flagstones and he was faced with thirty-odd sets of curious eyes, he’d had third and fourth thoughts. Mostly about slipping away before the reception. 

But right after the ceremony ended, as Scott and Allison passed by Stiles’ place at the back of the garden, Scott had paused for a second to clap Stiles on the shoulder and give him a happy, genuine grin. It was hard for Stiles to disappear after that. He owed it to Scott to at least say _congratulations_ in person before taking off.

Which was why Stiles was awkwardly hovering by the bar at the reception, fidgeting with the stem of a cherry and watching for a chance to get his good-bye to Scott and Allison over so he could escape the weirdness. He downed the rest of his drink and crunched absently on the ice. A dark-haired man with a scowl and at least a day’s worth of stubble winced as Stiles ground his teeth over a particularly large cube, although the man was far enough away from the noise that it had to be a coincidence.

Scott and Allison were continuously surrounded by well-wishers, so Stiles got another drink, this time with extra cherries, and leaned against the wall in a shadowed corner. He rolled the bright-red fruit around on his tongue, savoring the sticky sweetness as he catalogued other unusual behaviors in his fellow guests. 

The dark-haired guy from earlier glanced over at Stiles once, and for a second Stiles wondered if the other man was high—his eyes appeared to be incredibly bloodshot—but then Stiles blinked and the man’s eyes were just an indeterminate shade between green and blue. 

Stiles swallowed his cherry and let his gaze drift over the rest of the small crowd. He recognized the dark curls and kind face of Scott’s mom despite the intervening years. A beautiful redhead nearby who was sipping a berry-colored concoction looked vaguely familiar. But everyone else was a stranger. 

His attention was caught by a tall, leanly muscled man wearing a well-fitted, dark-blue suit that complemented his silvering hair. The man looked stern and dangerous and tightly wound. He was old enough to be Stiles’ father. He was just Stiles’ type. 

Another cherry disappeared into his mouth as Stiles considered whether or not the Scott McCall Wedding Experience would be improved or worsened by hooking up in a supply closet somewhere. 

He hadn’t gotten farther than _Scott already lectured me about inappropriate relationships_ in the Con column and _But he’s super hot_ in the Pro column when the man in question noticed Stiles noticing him and raised an eyebrow in his direction. Stiles swallowed the cherry mostly whole and coughed a little when he saw his own desire reflected back at him. 

Stiles straightened his spine and sent the silver fox a suggestive smirk, raising his glass toward the bar. Satisfaction and anticipation washed over him when the other man nodded once and moved to meet Stiles by the drinks. 

“What are you drinking?” The silver fox’s voice was low and gravelly and sparked Stiles in all the right ways.

“The…let’s see…the Red Riding Hood, I think the bartender said,” Stiles replied, glancing down at his empty glass. “It tastes like it’s mostly cranberry juice, grenadine, and vodka.” He paused. “I can’t honestly say I recommend it. And you look like more of a Big Bad Wolf, anyway.” Stiles gestured at the board behind the bar, which had the wedding reception’s specialty cocktails listed. 

“Laphroaig neat,” the silver fox told the bartender, forgoing the theme drinks entirely. 

“Smoky,” Stiles remarked. He nodded at the bartender and asked for the same. 

“I’m Chris,” the silver fox said once they had their scotch. 

“Stiles. Are you on the bride or groom’s side?” 

Chris made a rusty, amused sort of noise. 

“Bride.” 

“Ah. I’m here for the groom. Well, not _for him_. I mean, I came because Scott invited me.” Stiles took a large sip of scotch to stop himself from talking. 

“I haven’t seen you around before,” Chris said, guiding Stiles with a light hand to the small of his back to an empty corner table. 

“Funny story—I hadn’t seen Scott for fifteen years before I ran into him last night. We were best friends back then. Allison seems pretty great. They look happy.” 

“Do you still have…family in the area?” Chris’ pale-blue eyes seemed to follow every one of Stiles’ habitual fidgets. It was a little unnerving, but also kind of exciting. Stiles wondered if Chris was this focused on the people he fucked. 

“Not really,” Stiles answered. “My dad was a deputy in the Sheriff’s Department, but he transferred out of state after my mom died here. It’s sort of strange being back, I’ll admit.” 

“Your father was in human law enforcement?” Chris’ eyebrows rose and Stiles gave him a strange look. 

“…yeah? We usually just call it _law enforcement_ , but I guess some people take, like, animal control pretty seriously?” 

“Yes. Some of us do take it quite seriously.” Chris’ smile bared most of his teeth and Stiles started to shift back in his chair, uneasy.


	3. Promnis Quasi-Modern AU (what a title...it's a work in progress)

“C’mon, Noct, try one bite,” Prompto urged, pushing the plate toward his friend with an encouraging expression. “They’re, like, seventy percent tempura batter, I promise.”

Noctis set his mouth in a firm line and shook his head. 

“The inside is still aubergine,” Noctis said. “I hate vegetables. It took me years just to eat scallions on my noodles.” 

“It’s _fried_ , Noctis, nothing survives frying intact. It’s not even healthy anymore!” Prompto considered the golden-brown food in front of them for a minute before breaking into a triumphant smile. “And, you know, aubergine is a fruit. A _fruit_ , not a vegetable.”

Noctis poked at the tempura-covered eggplant doubtfully. 

“My dad tried to make me eat eggplant parmesan once,” he said. 

“And?” Prompto asked, eyebrows raised. “It’s delicious, right?”

“Mushy,” was Noctis’ verdict. 

Prompto sighed. 

“You haven’t changed much in the last five years, huh?” 

Noctis snorted.

“Neither have you.”

“I have!” Prompto protested. “I’m very…mature now.” 

He couldn’t keep his face straight after that and broke into laughter when Noctis raised a dubious eyebrow and flicked the chocobo charm dangling from Prompto’s phone. 

Prompto pushed him and Noctis pushed back and they were both grinning when the door to Noctis’ apartment opened following a brisk knock. 

Noctis poked his head over the back of the couch then relaxed back down. 

“Hey, Iggy,” he called. “The file’s on the table.”

Prompto straightened uncertainly, fidgeting with his wristbands before standing up and giving the new arrival a hesitant wave. 

“Hello,” Prompto said, hovering by the couch and unsure if he should cross the room for a more formal greeting. 

The man who had just entered Noctis’ living room was tall and stern-looking, with a shock of brown hair and sharp green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He spared Prompto a quick, assessing glance and a nod of greeting as he strode into the dining room and picked up a thick folder from the table. 

“I apologize for interrupting your evening, Noctis,” he said, returning to stand in front of them. 

“No big deal,” Noctis replied with a shrug. “Oh, hey, Ignis, do you want some eggplant tempura?”

“It might be cold now,” Prompto added shyly. “Probably better not to.”

“Oh, sure, you want _me_ to eat it, but you won’t ask Ignis to try it,” Noctis said. 

Prompto flushed. 

“Noctis mentioned you’d moved back to Insomnia,” Ignis said, ignoring the byplay. “Prompto Argentum, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Prompto replied. “I-I don’t know if you remember…we were at school together? With Noctis? I mean, you were ahead of us, so maybe you don’t. And you skipped a grade, right? So I guess if you don’t it’s totally—”

“I remember,” Ignis told him, thankfully cutting off the increasingly scattered nature of Prompto’s words. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Ignis shifted his attention to Noctis. “Please don’t forget the meeting we have with the Niflheim contingent tomorrow morning. I can drive you if you’d like.” 

“I can get to the office on my own, but thank you,” Noctis said, looking like he wanted to roll his eyes at Ignis’ insinuation that Noctis would be late without a ride. 

Ignis nodded smartly, bid them both good night, and left. 

“You really _have_ changed,” Prompto said once the door had closed behind Ignis. “In high school—even when we talked in university—you wouldn’t make an early-morning meeting if someone promised you a year of cake.” 

Noctis shrugged and averted his eyes self-consciously. 

“It’s a big responsibility, helping my dad with the company. It’s…important.”

“Of course it is,” Prompto agreed readily. “I just…you never seemed that enthusiastic about taking over as company president after your dad, that’s all. I thought for a while you might run away and, I don’t know, start an emo group somewhere in Accordo or something. Sing about what a drag the world is. Only come back to Lucis for your really big stadium tours.” 

Noctis did roll his eyes at that. 

“Whatever. I wasn’t that bad.” Noctis took in Prompto’s incredulous expression and returned a rueful smile. “Well, fine. I was…a little gloomy as a teenager. It’s a lot of pressure, okay? Being the only son of Regis Caelum is a big deal. He’s the head of Lucis’ biggest company—he’s a descendant of Ardyn the Liberator…if this were still a monarchy, he could be the freaking king! It’s intense.” 

Prompto’s blue eyes softened and he picked up the television remote. 

“I get it. I mean, obviously I don’t really _get it_ , since I’m just a lonely, broke, orphaned photographer, not the country’s most eligible bachelor—”

“Hey!” Noctis broke in, blushing. “That was _one time_ in _one magazine_ —”

“But it was such a good headline,” Prompto countered, smirking. “Okay, I’ll stop. What kind of movies do you have saved on here? Anything recent?” 

“I have that new one with the action star from Tenebrae—you know, the one who kinda looks like Ignis.”

Prompto, who had been about to veto the film due to its terrible reviews, rapidly reconsidered. 

“Oh, uh, yeah? That sounds good.”

“Okay,” Noctis started up the movie.


End file.
